PRESSURE CRUISING
by Michael Keenaghan
Gary came in and threw his keys by the phone. He was knackered. He called out for Karen but she wasn’t in. Then he saw the note. Gone to Mandy’s. Back later. Mandy’s - again! Almost every night now. He went to the fridge for a beer - and sure enough there wasn’t even a bite to eat. Nothing nice anyway. What the hell did she do all day? He cracked his can and walked to the window. Looked out at the view. Every time Karen’s brother came round he’d say how amazing it was having a view like that, right back into London, how he could stare at that for hours. The bloke must be soft in the head. Gary looked out and saw what he’d always seen from a block of flats. Miles and miles of grey fucking shit. What about looking out and seeing some green? A back garden. Something nice. But no. Just blocks and houses and crap for miles and what’s more it was starting to rain. Pour down.
Fuck this, he was going to phone her. Find out what was going on with all this Mandy shit every night. He was starting to feel like a bloody loner. She was never in. And no dinner for him either, nothing. Not even a bit of crap to throw in the microwave… But I’m busy, Mandy’s wedding’s coming up, there’s preparations… Yeah, yeah. Preparations my arse. What the fuck was she up to? He reached for his mobile but stopped himself. They’d gone through all this before. Him always checking up on her. Not trusting her. They’d made a promise. An arrangement. No more obsessive stuff. Karen’s words that was, not his. But he’d agreed. Had to.
But maybe he was over-reacting anyway. Her sister was getting married for God’s sake. Of course there’s preparations. What with it being a big church do and stuff. Course there is. Especially with women and that. You know how women are. He crushed his Stella and went for another. He was just tired. Just fucking knackered. Getting from that last job in Battersea back to the warehouse in Croydon had been a nightmare. Boss on the blower all day saying he wasn’t getting about fast enough. Deadlock everywhere he went but did the cunt understand - did he fuck. One of these days he’d take the moaning git out in the van with him, show him what some real work was like, prick stuck in the warehouse all day fucking clueless. Getting right up his arse that cunt was. Paid him peanuts and all. But fuck it anyway. Gary made a few bob on the side so shouldn’t complain really. Fuck it.
He put his feet up in front of the telly, flicking the remote, letting the lager soothe him. He settled on the news. The latest teenage shooting. Schoolboy shot in the head in Lewisham. Gary turned it up. That’s where he’d grown up. A towerblock just like this. Lewisham. Pile of fucking shit. Nowadays anyway. Back then it might have been rough but they weren’t blowing each others brains away that’s for sure. A backstreet leading towards an estate. Schoolkids laying wreaths on the pavement. Boy wasn’t in a gang. Did his homework. Loved his mum. All the usual. Until you see pictures off the net of the little cunt giving it all the gangsta bollocks, a little fucking mugger that carried a knife, probably went round robbing old women, old men. The reporter gushing about wasted life, wasted opportunity… What do you want me to do, cry? Served the fucker right. More gone the better. Gary thought of the other night. That prick outside the chip-shop. White but giving it large in front of his black fucking mates. Catching Gary’s eye and going what the fuck are you looking at? Strutting towards him like some noisy fucking rapper that needed a slap. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, YOU LITTLE CUNT - Gary reaching into his leather jacket and pulling out a sawn-off shotgun and the lot of them scattering like mice.
But that hadn’t been the case. Not atall. It sickened him thinking about it. Innocently shaking his head and walking on. Trying to eat his chips all casual with his throat clamping up and the cunt shouting behind him. But what could he do? There must have been seven or eight of them. Some of them big fuckers as well. Sniggering and laughing as he walked on. But that prick at the front. God, he’d liked to have done some serious damage to that cunt.
Still. Don’t you worry pal. If he ever saw the little wanker on his own that would be it. Grab him. You want it now yeah? Bash. Skull straight against the wall job. Want some more? Crack Crack Crack. Split the brainless fucker’s head open then kick him to a pulp. Scrawny little cunt. No respect, nothing. Gary thought back to the late eighties, wondered if he’d ever been as mouthy at that age. Never. Not to someone older. No way. And he’d had a mouth on him, course he had, everyone did. But you kept to your own. Didn’t bring that playground shit to the streets, no fucking way. Carry on like that and you’d get your face carved. A fucking smiler so you’d know not to take the piss. But these pricks didn’t know what payback was about. All their lives mouthing off to teachers and social workers and every other soft cunt going. Didn’t have an old man that would kick them into next week when he got home. Keep the fuckers in line. Single parents again. Single slappers. Not the bitches that get dumped with a brat but the cunts that do it on purpose, get pregnant, get the flat then can’t be arsed putting in the hours. Some shitbag on the screen giving it all the valueless killing, small price of life bollocks. Bullshit. These cunts should never have been born.
Gary sat with the scene rolling out on replay. What are you fucking looking at? - Me? What am I looking at? - Storming towards him - A PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT THAT’S WHAT. Whipping out a machete and sticking it straight in the cunt’s mouth. Suck on that you mouthy little prick. Gary saw himself in a van with some mates picking the cunts off the streets. In. Every one of them rounded up in a cellar somewhere. Fucking torture chamber more like. White prick kneecapped and naked on a rack. You want to be black yeah? Want to be black? From now on that’s all you’re ever gonna see mate. Cut the cunt’s fucking eyes out. You like that yeah, you like that? Squeal like a fucking pig. Then what. You want more? You were up for it on the street weren’t you? Well up for it then. Get a pliers and slice the bastard’s tongue off. Yeah, now we’re talking. Now we’re fucking talking. Turn him over, stick a cable up his arse and electrocute the cunt. Fried cunt flopping about and sizzling away. All his buddy boys hanging up in line, slinging from meathooks, watching the show. You’re next boys. Payback. All crying out for their fat bitching fucking cunting mothers. Wishing they’d never been born. No, no way, wouldn’t be fucking laughing then.
But Gary was. Almost spilt his beer. Pure endorphin buzz. And boy he needed it. Went through pure shit today. Hardly even a lunchbreak. Bacon and egg roll on the run and that was it. Stuck on Streatham High Road for a good hour. Fucking stressful. But on the bright side atleast he was working. Those few weeks out a while back had done his nut in. Stuck watching This Morning, Loose Women, afternoon soaps. Wired up to the box. Not knowing what to do with himself. He didn’t know how some people did it. Took a fall and busted their back or whatever then had to sit staring into space for six months. He’d fucking top himself.
He fiddled with his mobile. Wished Karen was about. Wished he could just phone her. Speak to her. Send a text even. But no. The arrangement. No more of that. They’d gone through it with the relationship counsellor. Their relationship had to be built on trust. No more check-ups. No more obsessive shit or it was over, finito. And that’s why Karen forced him down there, the two of them sitting in front of some stranger like they couldn’t even sort out their own problems. It was awful. The counsellor delving into his childhood, saying it was the cause of things, the root of his problem - their problem. But what did she know? Gary had taken slaps off the old man but so had everyone. It went with the time. No pussyfooting around back then. That’s just the way things were. But she made him feel like a fucking victim. Told him he was carrying around alot of pain, shaking her head with this weird sympathetic look like he was some kind of idiot abandoned at birth or something and Karen going along with it, agreeing with her. Trying to do his fucking head in. Four sessions of that and that was it. Enough. No more. I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t bring me back there.
But these days things were good between them. He trusted her. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Her sister was getting married for Christsake. Karen and Mandy were like best friends, could chat on the phone for hours. He could see them now, nattering away trying on dresses. Karen was lucky. She had quite a few friends really. Made Gary wonder where all his mates had gone. Not the blokes he knew down the pub or from work but his real mates. The ones he could trust. Ones he’d grown up with, knew since school, from way back. People that gave a shit. Where were they? Scattered. All grown up and moved on. Married with kids. Who knows, he was probably the only one left within the M25. He’d never have friends that close again. You just don’t, it doesn’t happen. Time always moving so fast, wiping everything away, replacing it with shit. Why?
He supped up. Leant back in his seat watching rain beat against the window. He didn’t really have much of a life when he thought about it. Not really. He thought of his little brother stationed out in Iraq. Now that was real living. Getting out there and fucking doing something. Even if Britain meant nothing anymore, just one big con, the whole country finished, gone down the shitter, there was still pride once you had done something like that. Put in the time, got the medals. Even with mental scars, physical scars, at least you could say you had done something. That’s what mattered in life. Achievement. Accomplishment. Not stuck in front of the telly with a can in your hand listening to some government cunt talking out of his fucking ring…
He was going to phone her. A trial of trust? Silly. He wanted to know where the hell she was. Well, not really where she was - he knew where she was, she was at Mandy’s - he just wanted to know that everything was okay. What was wrong with that? Here stuck on his own.
He went out the kitchen. Rustled up a ham sandwich. Brought it to the table and cracked another can. The weather was on. New weathergirl. Not bad actually. Not bad atall. He thought of the birds he’d shafted on the quiet. Suppose there’d been quite a few really. Mostly at work. Lugging in second-hand cookers and fridges and what have you, you get chatting, it happens. Sometimes he’d plug a cooker up, a doddle, do it for free, save the bird eighty quid or whatever. Gary was good with his hands. Was in the wrong game - should have been a chippy, a plumber. Sometimes a boiler just needed a little fiddle and that was that. He’d cheered enough women up with his handyman skills. And women get lonely. Men off leaving them in the lurch. Not giving them attention or worse, dumping them with two screaming kids and fucking off. Criminal really. What kind of carry-on was that? But Gary understood loneliness because Gary was lonely too, lonely right now. And sometimes when you’re lonely things happen, you follow instinct. Can’t be blamed.
And anyway, to a man it means nothing. It’s just a physical thing. Like that last time a few weeks back up Kidbrooke. Some old grinder well past it. Told him to make himself comfortable and slipped into the old suspenders and everything. Had her right there on the floor. No frills, no lead-up, just straight in there. Sick really. The boss had been in his ear that day like a madman but Gary blamed it on the traffic. Young Darren hadn’t minded though, out in the van snoring away, nothing new there. Pure desperation that old bird. In her day must have rode for England. Scraggy face and thick black make-up. Gagging for it. Jesus. Something from a horror film. He laughed, swigged his beer. Maybe he’d visit her again some day. Stick a paper bag over her head this time. Right old slapper. Probably went with the milkman and window cleaner too. Knew how to treat a man though. Offered him tea and biscuits and everything like nothing had happened. Wanted to sit him down for tea and a chat. Old Mother Hubbard the man-eater. Said he was pressed though, had to jog on. Busy man.
Who else? There’d been this black girl once that had started crying afterwards begging him to stay. Loopy that one. On the old medication definitely. What’s new. Old man in prison or something. Kids running round all over like a fucking playpen. Had to lock the door. Fucking beast in bed, biting him and everything. Told him to fuck off though in the end because he said he had work to do, screaming her head off, throwing plates down from the balcony, men are all the same, all that load of old bollocks. Gary jumping in the van and burning rubber. Still, comes with the job. Abuse and extras.
Gary smiled, had a laugh imagining himself a white van man Samaritan, whistling behind the wheel on his merry way, a friendly understanding service with a smile and always a free bonus thrown in for good measure, housewives and single mothers kept sweet between the sheets, free from loneliness, neglect, bouts of madness, old Gazza taking care of business, customers left satisfied and happy. Theoretically anyway. Fucking crazy that bird. Dangerous really. Could have got the police on him, he raped me he raped me, all that load of shit. But to be honest he was just bigging himself up. He was no romeo. Hadn’t happened that much at work. More like a rare treat. Maybe he was thinking of the times he’d paid for it. Times in need. You’ve got to get it from somewhere. That time Karen hadn’t talked to him for a week. Not a word. Apart from telling him to pack his bags and piss off. Or that stretch when she’d been in hospital - women’s shit. What was he supposed to do?
Not that he didn’t feel guilty after. But these people meant nothing. It wasn’t like he was off having affairs or anything, something that would threaten a relationship. It was just sex. Plain and simple. That’s what women don’t understand. To a man it means nothing. Fuck all. But say Karen went with a bloke (not that she would because she loved him and wasn’t a fucking slag), that would be different. Of course it would - you can talk about equality but you can’t change human nature. Because women are emotional. If that’s what you want to call it. Crafty more like. A shag can never be just a shag, always something more, something full of possibilities. That’s the way it is, way women are. Thinking ahead. Falling for the bloke with the most on offer. One man’s empty pocket against another man’s fat wallet. Which when you think about it makes sense. Horrible sense. Roof over the head, survival for the brood. Choose the man with the Merc, the BMW. That’s why there’s so many single bitches in blocks of flats. Believing the hype. Left crying. But men aren’t like that. More simple. Just want in. Brainless really. That’s why you’ve got to keep a fucking eye out. Be a mug not to. Beasts on the prowl, catch you unaware and grab your goods. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife. Biblical shit. Caveman shit. Ever since the world began. Thr threat of predators. Might have to jump out and hit one over the head with a club. Beat the bastard till he’s dead on the floor. Serve the fucker right. People taking the piss left right and centre. But then you’d be in such a state you’d probably bash up your own woman’s head too, who knows, who can say, especially if the flash bastard had smiled at her and she’d smiled back like women always fucking seem to do. Because then you’d be made a fucking fool of and no choice you’d have to rectify that, do something, pull out a lumphammer and do a Peter Sutcliffe, all wound up, off on a tangent, brain tripping through a black fucking hole, lost to the world, no turning back, it happens, happens all the fucking time, you hear about it, read about it, reading your paper on your morning break and another bloke has killed his wife, his kids, himself, and why, because the wife was playing away, taking the fucking piss, always the same story, pushing a man into the corner, making him feel useless, no good, defunct, a worthless piece of fucking shit, what the fuck is he supposed to do, take it on the chin, sit back and twiddle his thumbs, don’t know, no answer, never is, but Sutcliffe, fucking hell, don’t even know why I mentioned the cunt, a psycho, fucking nutcase, attacked strangers, girls he didn’t even know, hammer over the fucking head, bang, tore their bodies to bits and ripped them apart, what’s that all about, women climbing into cars found mutilated on wasteland, blokes like that should be fucking shot, no trial, nothing, just blow the bastards away and piss on the grave, all of them, every cunt that doesn’t know his right from wrong, no mercy, none, and he thought of when they’d gone to Karen’s brother’s wedding, right after the miscarriage, Karen out of the depression and perking up and she met this bloke and started talking to him, laughing and joking, glued to him, eyes all sparkling under the disco lights like he was an old flame or something, and Gary just standing there being ignored, clutching his pint so tight he thought the glass would shatter in his hand, but so what, maybe he’d just drive it into the smarmy-looking cunt’s face, boasting and bragging how he worked in insurance and had done well for himself, big house in Chislehurst, not bad for a kid from Bermondsey, and he leaned over and asked what Gary did, Karen butting in saying, oh he just drives a van and Gary having to nod his head like a muppet, a fucking mug, Karen talking on and on to the bloke and Gary the invisible fucking man, and we all know what birds are like once they find a bloke with some wedge in his pocket, doesn’t matter if he’s the ugliest bastard in the world, if he’s got some wedge and a sportscar outside then it’s see you later Gary nice knowing you, and later on Gary had caused a bit of a scene pulling Karen out like that, threatening the best man who’d tried to get involved, hey mate what’s the problem chill out yeah, Gary telling him to mind is own business or he’d slice his fucking throat, way overboard, pure drink talking, but I suppose it was late and everyone was pissed and there’d been one or two fights anyway, always is at these do’s, but back at home it kicked off good and proper. Gary just lost it. Went fucking mental. It seemed like a nightmare now. Knocking back a bottle of Scotch as he went for her. Jesus. It made him shudder, feel sick even thinking about it. Pulling her round by the hair and forcing her down on her knees and onto him, you’re mine you fucking slag, forcing her in and out, are you listening to me, thundering like a fucking ogre, mind racing through hell, possessed by the fucking devil.
Then a few hours later waking up in bed. Sun streaming through the curtains, could have been a normal Sunday morning, go somewhere, do something nice. But Karen wasn’t next to him. Where was she? What had happened? His mind totally blank. Then he went into the living room and there she was, shaking in the corner, black eye, busted lip, trembling like a rape victim. It all flashed back. The violence, the terror, lashing out at the one thing he loved in life, one thing he cared about. He held her in his arms. I’m sorry I’m sorry. Karen like a frightened animal. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. It was madness, insane, eating him up, spitting him out, he hated himself, the bloke at the wedding was just a family friend, more like a brother, and words were no good, words were useless, coming out of his mouth and meaning nothing.
He went to the kitchen and came back with a meat knife, put it to his wrist and said he’d kill himself right now, that was it, that was all he deserved, to die, to fucking die because what he’d did was wrong, not just wrong fucking sick, despicable, the blade pressing deeper into his skin and tears pouring down his face, and maybe it was true what that counsellor had said, childhood determining everything, leaving it’s scars, it’s demons, its mark of the fucking beast, six six fucking six, because at that moment it was all flooding back, his dad battering his mum, hitting him and his brothers, coming in from the pub and raising hell and it was fucking terrifying, put the fear of God in him, never left him, always bubbling somewhere beneath ready to rise up and grab him by the throat and drive him insane, Karen jumping up as he dug the blade in and drew blood, grabbing the knife off him, telling him to get a grip, he’d been pissed, got jealous, it happens, but never again, no way, things were going to change, and they held on tight, and Karen was strong, much stronger than him, deserved a fucking medal the shit she had to put up with…
But no way. This was too much. Too heavy. It was all in the past. He didn’t want to think about this now. Doing his nut in.
He sat back and concentrated on Emmerdale. Couldn’t get into it, too boring. He flicked the remote. Fuck it. Went to the fridge for more beer. Another cold can. Though admittedly he was going over his weekday ration now. No harm though. Stressful day after all. Necking a mouthful - God, that’s good. He ran his hand over the kitchen worktop. Smooth, clean. The place was spotless. He was lucky having Karen. Too lucky. Sometimes he didn’t realize it, took her for granted and he knew it. But he loved her. Always had. Ever since the first time he’d seen her, across the bar, their eyes locking, everything else disappearing, music fading away. She looked like an angel. Still did.
He fought an urge to dig out his little voddy stash. Have a little chaser. Little sip wouldn’t do no harm. She wouldn’t be home till late. Take the edge off. Calm him. Yeah, go on. He rummaged around at the back of the tool cupboard, smiled as he removed the half-bottle from a rolled up chippy’s belt. Look at him, right little alcoholic. No, hand on heart that’s one thing he could never say he was. Just liked a drink like the next man. If women wanted to put terms and labels on it and attach a whole set of rules around it then fair enough, but he worked for a living, worked bloody hard, never missed a day. Not like his old man. He took a hearty swig. Nice little booster. Took another, one for the pot. Much better. He put it away before he got a taste for it. Buried it deep.
He paced about the flat with his can. Seemed dead without Karen. Incomplete. Soulless. Bricks and mortar, nothing else. Not how a home should be really. Though maybe it was just him. Drink going to his head. He went into the bedroom. The perfume instantly hitting him. Everything so neat. He almost felt like an intruder - Karen’s territory - like he wasn’t welcome. He laughed as he settled down onto the bed, careful not to spill his beer. He thought of his old bedroom when he’d been growing up. Crap everywhere. Wall covered with footballers. Then one day he thought fuck that, and replaced the lot with Page 3 girls. Sam Fox mainly. He put his head back on the pillow. Maria Whittaker. Donna Ewin. Kathy Lloyd. Still up there, all the names in his head, he’d never forget them. Gorgeous. A pair of knickers and not much more.
Suddenly he sprung up, had a crazy idea. He took a quick lug of Stella then went over to Karen’s underwear drawer. He opened it up. A smell of freshness, cleanliness. A woman’s place. Hands off. He smiled. He’d have to be careful. Karen was particular. Knew her stuff. Knew if he even bloody moved the salt cellar. He rifled through… panties, tights… found what he was looking for, the crotchless fishnets - yes. He’d bought them for Karen himself. Not cheap either. He held them up in the air. Fucking sexy. He put them against himself. Go on, don’t be scared…try ‘em for size. Go on. Just a laugh after all. Karen wouldn’t be back for hours. He stripped off his tracksuit bottoms. Slipped them on. Tight fit but, fucking hell, look at him, standing in front of the mirror with a boner the size of Canary Wharf. He turned left and right. My God. He could see himself getting into this. He whipped off his t-shirt, selected a bra - complete the look, why not - strapped it on and frantically stuffed it to bursting with socks, knickers, anything he could find. Man this was sexing him up something large, fucking big time mate.
He laughed. Went to the bedside table for his can, drained it. Then he was back at the mirror, observing, watching in fascination the transformation before him, pulling girlie poses, left and right, leaning over submissively, or dominantly thrusting his tits out, squeezing the cups, bra packing a punch…
But wait…something was missing. Definitely. What was it? Shoes! Heels! Of course. A good pair of heels on a bird, cant beat it. And Karen loved her shoes. Had loads of them. Collected them like some pricks collected stamps. Felt it when he got his bank statement too. Still. He pulled them out onto the carpet. Some of them she never even wore. But hang on, he’d never get his size nines into any of these. Still, he selected a pair of patent stacks, beautiful, strapped up, tried for the best. No harm trying. He tottered over to the mirror, tripped slightly then - crack! - one of the heels snapped. Shit… Bollocks. But fuck it, he’d do a glue job on that later. He shoved them under the bed. Forget the shoes, not working. He sat down and stared at himself in the mirror. Hairs sprouting through the nets. Good old bit of carpet on the chest and stomach. God, he was one hairy fucker. Still, never did Sean Connery any harm. But look at that - pinching his belly - bit of the old paunch coming on, noticeable in this garb. Pure beer that was. Never mind though. You see what you want to see. It’s all in the head. And what Gary was seeing was pure fucking sex. He looked at his face. Pulled pouts. Come-to-bed eyes. Good looking bastard and he knew it. Always knew it. He got up and dimmed the lights. Ambience. Much better. Body dressed in shadows and a gorgeous sexy woman flourishing from those manly rugged looks… oh shut up, he was making himself laugh. This was crazy. Insane. But he was loving it. He had a brainwave. Lipstick! Red fucking lipstick. Go for it! He rummaged through Karen’s make-up - found it - smudged it around his mouth, issuing feminine sighs. He couldn’t believe he’d never thought of this before, never, not even once, all this time right here and he’d never thought of it. Then he heard a noise. He stopped. Shit. Suddenly the door opened.